


Triptych

by rubysharkruby



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Bad Jokes, Clothed Sex, Developing Relationship, Hope, M/M, Snow Blindness, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 07:18:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18773893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubysharkruby/pseuds/rubysharkruby
Summary: Three moments of a relationship.





	Triptych

"The weather had been so bad on the last part of the trip that three of the eight men had seriously frostbitten toes and all eight of them were snowblind to some extent, Lieutenant Little himself completely blind for the last five days and sick with terrible headaches. Little... had to be loaded onto the sledge and hauled back by the few men who could still see well enough to pull."

_Dan Simmons, The Terror_

 

 

_one._

 

Two sharp knocks on his door startled Edward from the blurry state between sleep and wakefulness. He hissed as the pain woke as well; roused from a dull background roar to spikes driven through both temples and the return of the maddening, gritty sensation that he had finally managed to escape. His tone did little to mask his irritation as he told his visitor to come in. 

Even through his closed lids and the bandages covering both eyes, he fancied he could perceive the light change as the door scraped open. The Preston Patent Illuminator set into the ceiling of the cabin had been covered, like the drawn curtains of a sickroom and he the invalid confined to its darkness with instructions to keep his eyes covered and sleep if he could. Sleep had come in the form of a foul-tasting tincture pressed upon him by Dr. McDonald that had brought forth troubled dreams that left him panting and shaking and fighting to stay awake in spite of the pain. Despite pinching his thigh raw and straining his ears for the familiar sounds of life outside his dark little prison, the medicine had done its work and the previous day had passed in a blur of pain and fears that lost form upon waking but none of their potency.

He had told the doctor that the pain was less today and escaped with only a Dover’s powder and the vinegar-soaked strips of brown paper across his brow that Gibson refreshed at each watch. Presumably, that was what he was here for now, though Edward hadn’t heard the bell.

He hadn’t heard anything from his visitor either; no sound since the door opened and then closed again. “Mr. Gibson?”

“No, sir.” The familiar voice made him start. “It’s Jopson. Dr. McDonald thought it might be time to change that paper.”

Edward swallowed. He was suddenly very aware of the closeness of the room; of being in his nightclothes and laid out on his back, on his bed, and in the narrow dark where he had often thought of that voice and the man it belonged to. Though, of course, it wasn’t dark for Jopson: he had a candle, the burning scent of it discernible beneath the fresh bowl of diluted vinegar. Edward couldn’t see Jopson, but Jopson could see him quite clearly. The thought made him want to squirm.

“That’s hardly one of your duties.” He meant to speak lightly but the dryness of his throat made it come out rough, like a rebuke, and he winced.

Jopson didn’t appear to notice. “No, but I thought I’d do it anyway.” The candle holder clinked against the desk, followed by a broader sound as the bowl was set down beside it. Cloth rustled. “Mr. Gibson was occupied and I had a free moment.”

That seemed unlikely. He had never seen Jopson at leisure. He was always cleaning or fetching something, and even in moments of stillness he stood attendant: back straight, ready to provide whatever the captain might require of him.

A touch to Edward’s brow made him flinch and Jopson made a soothing sound. “Just me, sir. Just going to change the paper, help you with your head.”

His touch was light and professional but Edward felt it in every part of his body. He had never been alone with Jopson, never been touched by him outside of his own shameful imaginings and here, in the dark with his heart pounding and his blankets drawn up, it could almost be the start to one of those fantasies. Bare fingers brushed his temple, gentle against the peeling skin of his brow where the merciless sun had burnt him even as he and his men shivered and froze. His cabin wasn’t cold enough for the wet paper to have turned to ice the way their water had done out there if they forgot to keep the bottles tucked beneath their shirts, but it was stiff and cold and he shuddered as it pulled away from his skin.

Jopson made that soft sound again and Edward cleared his throat. “Has there been any word of the final lead party?” he asked desperately. “Lieutenant Gore and his men.”

“No, sir, but they did have farther to go. The captain doesn’t expect them back for a few days yet.”

“Yes, of course.” Stupid. He knew that. Either the powder or the shock of having Jopson in his personal cabin, close enough to hear him breathe and smell the Macassar oil in his hair, was making it hard to compose his thoughts. “And the men? How are the men? Sinclair was in a bad way; the doctor thought he might lose a toe. Is he well?”

“He’s fine, resting up like you are. They’re all fine, sir. You got the worst of it.”

His tone carried no judgement but the words stung nonetheless. The misery of the journey back to the ships had been beyond imagination: the nausea; the pain cleaving his head in two; his eyes burning and streaming until he was forced to stumble along with one hand on John Kenley’s broad shoulder, and then loaded into the boat for the final half-day’s march like a piece of baggage. Seven other men had been struck by snow blindness under his command, but none so badly. He might have attributed it to his inexperience with polar conditions, but George Hodgson was similarly unfamiliar with travelling on the ice and had suffered no worse than hunger and exhaustion. Four of his men had some degree of snow blindness and two lost toes, but their leader stayed strong.

Water sloshed softly against the sides of the bowl as Jopson prepared the new strip of paper. The astringent smell of vinegar made Edward’s nose itch but he couldn’t say that it was having any noticeable effect on his head. His feet kicked against each other until he forced himself to stillness, conscious of being observed. As a distraction, he tried to visualise where Jopson would be standing as he worked, the expression on his face. Would it be the same placid concentration as when he poured Allsop’s at dinner, or would the mask drop when there were none to see it; would his face show the strain they all felt, or irritation at one more tedious task added to his day?

Gibson tended towards silence at his work, so it was a surprise when Jopson spoke again. “One of the doctors on the ’39 expedition had a theory that it might depend on the angle of the sun, how it affects you. That it would depend on which direction you’re traveling. Does Dr. McDonald think the same?”

He sounded closer than before. Edward’s toes flexed beneath the blankets. “If he does, he made no mention of it to me. But he did say, ah, he said there’s evidence that snow blindness affects dark eyes more than light. My eyes are dark.”

“Yes,” Jopson said, a smile in his voice. “I had noticed.”

Edward felt himself colour. “Yes.”

The sounds of water had stopped. It felt like Jopson was very close now and Edward steeled himself for the clammy touch of the paper on his forehead.

Instead, Jopson let out an audible breath and then said, quite lightly, “Just like I dare say you’ve noticed my eyes. Just like you’ve noticed my hands and my mouth. Those are the places your eyes linger.”

He could not have shocked Edward more if he’d struck him. Indeed, for a moment it was as if he had dropped something very cold and very heavy—one of Mr. Blanky’s icebergs, perhaps—onto Edward’s chest, crushing the air from his lungs and pinning him beneath its weight. In him spread the sickening realisation that his attentions had not gone unnoticed, that Jopson had been aware of them and been made uncomfortable by an officer whose thoughts should only have been on his responsibilities to the men under his command. Jopson was a good man, loyal and uncomplaining and generous. It was not his fault that he was also beautiful.

“I—I don’t…” he stammered, caught between denial and apologising for the offence given. He jolted at a touch to his chest, realising it was Jopson’s hand only as it settled.

“How your heart races,” Jopson said, low. “Be easy, sir. I only noticed you looking because I was looking too.”

“You… were?”

“Oh, yes.”

His hand rubbed a circle against Edward’s chest. After a long moment in which Edward was certain his heart didn’t beat at all, he cautiously brought his own hand up, touching fingertips to the back of Jopson’s and breathing out sharply when it turned over, fingers closing around his own. “What do you see?” he asked.

Jopson laughed, more air than sound. “I see someone looking for compliments. Well, let’s just say that the eye does not go wanting, shall we? Though I’m sure you must know that already.”

Edward hadn’t thought himself looking for compliments, but the easy appreciation in Jopson’s voice sent heat prickling across his skin. Jopson’s fingers were cool and slightly damp against his, his thumb sweeping along the bony ridge of Edward’s knuckles. An equally light touch stroked the hair back from his temple, soothing the pain there better than any number of strips of stinking wet paper, and it was too good, too simple, too close to what he had tried not to let himself want. It was this last thought that made him pull away and tug at the bandages covering his eyes.

“Oh!” Hands seized his, stopping him. “No, sir, you can’t do that. The doctor says you have to wait.”

“I need to see.” Edward pulled at his hands but they were caught in an iron grip. A childish panic flared bright at the reminder of his own weakness but he tried to keep his voice calm and firm like he had been taught. “Dr. McDonald said there would be no further damage if the light was weak and it was not for long. You will unhand me, please, Mr. Jopson, and let me see.”

Because this was not something that could be accepted with both eyes closed. Jopson could see him but he couldn’t see Jopson, couldn’t see for certain that it even was Jopson and not some trick at his expense by a disgruntled crewman with duty owing—he understood the caulker’s mate was an excellent mimic. Or, worse, but surely not impossible, it was indeed Jopson who spoke but his words were for the benefit of some third party; the captain standing in the corner, waiting for proof of what Jopson had told him of Lieutenant Little’s unnatural appetites. Or it could simply be that his mind was so addled with pain and remnants of yesterday’s tincture that he would find that he had been speaking to an empty room, lost in one of his fantasies, after all. Surely, that was more likely than the alternative.

Jopson slowly released him. “All right,” he said. “Just for a moment.”

Between them, they unwound the bandages. The light coming through Edward’s eyelids grew steadily brighter and when they were down to the final layer Jopson’s hands fell away, leaving Edward to remove the gauze pads and force his smarting eyes open.

Each blink was like grinding sand into the sockets. Water streamed so copiously from both eyes that for long moments he could see nothing but grey smudges and panic took hold of him again. Dr. McDonald had assured him that the loss of sight was temporary, but what if he was wrong? What use was he without his eyes? Eventually, though, the familiar lines of his room began to take form and he searched the empty corners first before his eyes settled on Jopson standing beside the desk. Jopson held the candle in one hand, shielding the flame with the other, his wide pale eyes fixed on Edward.

One side of his mouth turned up in a lopsided smile. “Just me,” he said.

“Yes,” Edward said faintly. The nerves that had been absent from Jopson’s voice were plain on his face, even blurred and lit strangely from below as it was, and that eased the tight knot Edward hadn’t felt gathering beneath his breastbone. His heart gave a foolish little jump against his ribs. The very spot where Jopson’s hand had rested.

“Yes,” he said again. “You’re a bold one, aren’t you?”

The words slipped out without forethought. Ridiculous words, not at all the thing to say to a handsome man one wished to impress, but Jopson’s smile lost its tension and spread into something bright and toothy and completely unlike the polite little thing that hovered around his mouth while he was at work. “Bold as brass,” he agreed, looking like a man who had been paid a fine compliment he felt was entirely his due. “With the right incentive.”

It seemed as if there should be more to say, but Edward didn’t trust himself not to blurt out more foolishness and Jopson kept his peace, also. His smile grew smaller, but his eyes stayed bright as he and Edward regarded each other from across the small room. Edward wished he knew what he was thinking. He might have gotten up the courage to ask if his eyes hadn’t begun to sting too fiercely for him to keep them open any longer. He swiped the back of his hand irritably across his wet face and Jopson immediately set the candle down.

“Right, that’s enough. Any longer and you’ll strain your eyes and get both of us in trouble with the doctor. I don’t think either of us wants that, do we, sir?”

“Yes, I believe you’re right.”

They re-wrapped Edward’s eyes and he was in darkness once again. Opening his eyes, no matter how briefly, had galvanised the pain in his head and left the rest of him strangely drained. He lay passive while Jopson applied the new wet paper to his brow and murmured assent to the suggestion that the doctor be called upon for some drops to help him sleep. Perhaps his dreams would be sweeter now.

Above their head, four bells rang out the end of the First Dog Watch. It was later than he had thought. He had already kept Jopson from his duties long enough, but still he reached out blindly and caught his hand. “Will you…” The words were hard to say, but Jopson had been bold so perhaps he could be too. “Will you visit me again?”

“Of course, sir. You needn’t worry on that account.”

Edward couldn’t see the smile that went with the way Jopson’s voice dipped low and teasing, but he could imagine it and it made it easier for him to say, “And will you, perhaps, call me Edward then? When you come to visit.”

The cuff of Jopson’s shirt brushed his fingertips as he edged them beneath, stroking the hot smooth skin of the inside of his wrist. Jopson’s breath gave a gratifying hitch.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment, voice not entirely steady. “I think I can do that.”

 

 

_two._

 

There was a lamp burning in Lieutenant Little’s cabin. A faint light, but it was dark enough in the empty passageway that a glow came through the slats in his door, a hint of warmth in this cold place. If Tom were of a more sentimental nature, he might stand there a moment with his hand pressed to the door like Pyramus and Thisbe, imagining what lay on the other side, but even with barely a dozen men left aboard it was a risk to linger. And it had been over a week since he last touched the lieutenant. Sentiment couldn’t compete with that. 

Edward looked up as the door slid open just enough for Tom to slip through and shut behind him. And he was Edward again now, not the lieutenant: a certain quality to his expression that only existed when the two of them were alone; something soft and watchful that made Tom feel the pulse of blood in his veins and breath in his lungs for the first time all day. Edward was seated at his desk, pen in hand and frowning over his logbook instead of already abed like Tom had hoped. Once, he had surprised Edward on the cusp of sleep and the memory of slipping into bed with him, heavy and pliant and smiling so sweetly when he opened his eyes, had warmed Tom through many a cold and lonely night in his own narrow berth. Even in the privacy of his own cabin, smiles from Edward Little were as rare as hen’s teeth and each one Tom earned he guarded jealously.

There was no smile to greet him now, but Edward’s frown broke into startled pleasure before his brows drew together again. “The captain?”

It was just as well Tom was very nearly as fond of the thundercloud as he was of the sunshine. “Is sleeping. Finally.”

They were through the worst of it now, thank Christ. The day had seen no more arguments with people who weren’t in the room and the captain had managed to keep down a half glass of water before Dr. McDonald’s visit. He even had a sarcastic retort when told his colour had improved. There had been no repeat of four days ago when he had fixed Tom with a bloodshot eye and ordered him—hoarse but perfectly lucid—to fetch his pistol. Refusal had made him vicious and wheedling by turns but he hadn’t the strength to keep that up for more than a few hours, and had finally lapsed into silent weeping while Tom wiped his brow and told him well-worn stories of their time in the Antarctic. His mother had begged for a knife and it had been worse than that. Still, that night Tom had waited until the captain had fallen asleep and then he had sat at the table in the great cabin and put his head in his hands and breathed deeply for a very long time.

Today had been better than that. The captain had slept and groaned and sweated the poison out and given Tom very little to do beside stand vigil, but a part of him still felt like he couldn’t breathe deeply enough to get past the steel band wrapped around his chest.

He shook himself and put on a smile. “He took some of the drops the doctor mixed for him and should be settled for the night. I don’t expect him to wake.”

His attempt at making that last part sound suggestive fell disappointingly flat. Over these past months Edward had revealed himself to be a man of surprising passion and tenderness, but he was not by nature playful and gestures towards levity or innuendo were often met with the uncertainty of a working dog being thrown a ball. It was a sign of how far Tom had fallen that he found it as endearing as it was exasperating when Edward took his words at face value, standing and stretching his back with a grimace and a low groan.

“Then it is high time you took your own rest,” he said. “I can write as easily in the great cabin as I can here. Come, I will take watch while you get some sleep.”

“Sleep is not what I want.”

The _you fool_ went unspoken, but Edward’s face said he heard it all the same, even as he allowed himself to be pulled into a kiss. An eager noise escaped Tom as their mouths met. For the first two years of this voyage he had known nothing save the touch of his own hand and not minded overmuch, but now even a week was too long to go without this. It was a specific kind of cruelty to see each other every day and only ever be the first lieutenant and the captain’s steward now that he knew what Edward tasted like.

When they finally parted to draw breath, Tom tucked his face into the whiskery side of Edward’s neck with a sigh. In full sunlight those whiskers were two shades lighter than the hair on his head and somewhat reddish. Of all things, it was they that had first caught Tom’s attention, and then it was the lingering glances he would sometimes catch out of the very corner of his eye—something he would have missed entirely had his own gaze not shared that same tendency to linger longer than it ought. They might have kept watching each other forever without a word said had the sight of Edward’s senseless body being pulled from the back of that boat not shaken something loose in Tom. Had it not made him realise that it was entirely possible to feel the loss of something you’d never had.

It could so easily have been Edward chosen to head south instead of Lieutenant Gore, or he the one ordered up on deck after the brawl with Captain Fitzjames instead of Mr. Blanky. There were so many ways to lose someone and so little Tom could do to keep it from happening.

Fear tightened his grip and Edward grunted lightly, rubbing up and down his back. He was warm and solid and fiercely alive against Tom; his breath stroking the tender spot behind one ear and his chest expanding and contracting within the circle of Tom’s arms. His whiskers tickled as he pressed a kiss to Tom’s neck, making him huff. “I must smell like a sickroom.”

“No,” Edward said, breathing in deep against the hinge of his jaw. He left another kiss there. “Just like Tom Jopson.”

Tom had to kiss him again for that, feeling some of the day’s tension seep out of him and that other, better tension start to build. They were nearly of a height—he had only to lean down and Edward to tilt his face up to bridge that inch or two’s difference, like that was all that separated them. He liked the way it made Edward feel open to him, his shoulders loose, the vulnerable line of his throat bared and bobbing beneath Tom’s touch. One of Edward’s hands settled at his waist, nudging beneath layers of waistcoat, sweater, and shirts until he drew a gasp from Tom with his thumb stroking the bare line of his hip.

Edward kissed the corner of his mouth, his cheek. “Will you come to bed?” he asked softly. “Lie down with me. I can use my mouth.”

Desire pulled at Tom even as the band around his ribcage gave a squeeze. He shook his head. “Not the bed.”

“Very well.”

Tom allowed himself to be steered until he was settled on the chair beside the desk, trousers open and Edward kneeling between his spread thighs. There was always a ticking clock marking off their time together: no time to fully undress; one ear ever pricked for footsteps at the door. There was too much at risk for them to linger over pleasure, but, despite this, Edward’s mouth was unhurried as it took him in. Soft lips and wet heat. Teasing licks and then the flat pressure of his tongue dragging a shaky sound from Tom and sending bliss shivering down to his curling toes. He melted beneath that assured touch and the way Edward’s thick lashes fell to lie against his cheeks, like Tom was something to be savoured. Like this was something he had been promising himself all week.

He smoothed Edward’s hair back from where it tumbled across his forehead and Edward pulled off long enough to press a kiss to the centre of his palm. “One of these nights I would have you completely bare,” he said, voice already taking on a rough edge. “I want to see all of you.”

God, but Tom wanted that too. In their bulky layers, all the men looked broad and square and the same, but he had slid hands beneath Edward’s shirts to feel the lean muscle of his chest and back. He had kissed the points of his hips and left finger-shaped bruises there, but never had he stripped entirely bare and pressed all of himself against all of Edward. What an unimaginable luxury. Something he would want to do properly: undress Edward slowly, taking care with each garment as it was removed before allowing himself to turn his attentions to the man they had concealed. And maybe Edward would want to do the same, undress him in his turn. He wouldn’t know the correct way to help a gentleman undress, of course, he hadn’t been trained, but Tom’s clothing was less intricate than his own and Tom could show him. Maybe he would like to be shown.

There were other things he imagined doing for Edward. Idle thoughts of an improbable world where they were not lieutenant and steward, just men, and Edward still wanted this despite having other options. He imagined drawing Edward a bath. Shaving the bare stretch of skin between his whiskers. Laying his clothes out in the morning and watching him walk around all day in the things Tom had chosen for him. Maybe these were not things he would have wanted had he become a clerk or a tanner, had years of service not worn these grooves into his nature, but he found that he didn’t care. They were things that would bring him pleasure and Edward ease and he wasn’t sorry for being the kind of man who wanted them.

Beneath Edward’s eyes were shadows, fine lines that spoke to how little rest he was getting now that Terror was his to command, yet his first thought had been to let Tom sleep and now he was on his knees giving him what he wanted. How could Tom not want to take care of him?

Edward bent back to his work, the hot pull of his mouth erasing every other thought from Tom’s head. He reached out helplessly; stroking back Edward’s thick dark hair, tracing fingertips along the stern line of his brow, the soft scratch of whiskers along his working jaw. He explored the stretch of Edward’s mouth then eased a finger into that snug heat alongside his cock, shuddering at the feel of the sound Edward made deep in his throat.

“Look at me,” Tom murmured, groaning when Edward fixed him with a hot dark stare that drew everything up tight inside him. “Yeah. God, that’s perfect.”

He couldn’t last after that. It felt too good, the pressure building in him, and part of him desperately wanted to fight it, to stay in this simple moment forever, but there was pleasure too in giving himself over and letting the wave crest and carry him away. He came with one hand buried in Edward’s hair and the other a fist pressed hard to his own mouth.

Edward gentled him through it before pulling back, mouth red and eyes dazed. Tom kissed him then, tasting himself and desperation in Edward’s gasping breaths. He felt like a puddle poured into the shape of a man but it was easy to let Edward gather him up and spill him across the bed. Between them they unfastened Edward’s trousers and Tom clumsily unbuttoned his own waistcoat so he could pull his shirts and sweater up and let Edward rut against his naked hip. Edward made a wounded noise when Tom pressed a palm down over the top of his cock, giving him a tight space to fuck into.

Even with his own need satisfied and exhaustion dragging at him it was a heady feeling to be trapped beneath Edward’s weight as he sought his own end. Tom craned his neck up for a kiss and then sucked the first two fingers of his free hand into his mouth, smiling at the noise Edward made and the way his hips sped up as he realised what Tom was doing. On a different night he might tease, but Edward had been sweet with him and Tom wanted to be sweet too. He slipped his hand down the back of Edward’s trousers, scratching lightly at the base of his spine before reaching lower where the skin was hot and soft and each stroke of his fingers drew tremors from Edward and made him bury sharp, breathless sounds in Tom’s shoulder. His thighs spread wide at the touch; hips hitching back and forth, frantic, like he couldn’t decide which sensation to chase. Tom rubbed lightly and then firmer, applying pressure until the tip of one finger nudged inside and Edward spilled across his stomach, teeth clenched around the bunched-up fabric of Tom’s waistcoat to muffle his cries.

They pulled themselves together again slowly. There was little enough space on the bed but they found ways to fit together; elbows bumping and knees knocking and Edward’s mouth somehow finding its way to the juncture of Tom’s neck, distracting them from their task for long minutes.

By the time they separated, Tom’s shirts were rucked up to beneath his arms. Edward’s spend still glistened across his stomach, pearling in the black hairs there, but he stopped Edward when he tried to use a corner of the blanket to wipe him clean. “Who do you think washes that?”

A furrow appeared between Edward’s brows. Maybe he had forgotten or maybe he didn’t care but Tom did. He didn’t want Billy Gibson thinking about Edward like that. There was a handkerchief in Tom’s pocket, old but clean and with his initials picked out in his own neat stitch in one corner. He scrubbed it across his stomach as Edward watched intently, already tucked away and looking very nearly the proper lieutenant again if you didn’t take note of the red of his lips where Tom’s stubbled throat had abraded him or the disarray of his dark hair. It could use a trim but suited him too well for Tom to mention it.

Tom returned the handkerchief to his pocket and straightened his clothes as best he could while lying down. Edward cleared his throat. “I imagine you can wash that with greater ease than I.”

“Or I could sleep with it beneath my pillow. Give myself some nice dreams.” Tom rolled onto his side. He had spoken flippantly, expecting a grimace or reluctant amusement, maybe, but the only change to Edward’s serious expression was a darkening of the flush across his cheeks. They regarded each other.

“And what token do I get in return?” Edward asked after a moment, so stiff that Tom was slow to realise that he was continuing the joke. His fingers plucked at the hem of Tom’s waistcoat.

“Mm. A lock of my hair?”

Surprise and then scepticism showed in Edward’s eyes as they flicked up to where Tom’s hair already lay flat and neat; smoothed back into place before Tom had given any thought to the state of his clothes.

Tom shook his head. “Not from there.”

He had hoped for a smile and was shocked by the laugh he got. A rough snort of air through Edward’s nose and a boyish crook to his lips that Tom had never seen before and returned helplessly, heart fast like he’d just run a race. He bit back his own laugh when Edward used the hand at his waist to shake him, mock-scolding, and then pull him in for a kiss that Tom gave gladly.

“That, Mr. Jopson, is foul,” Edward said when he drew back.

He was still smiling though, just a little, and Tom’s chest felt tight again but it was a full, bright feeling that he would hold onto for as long as he could. He raised his eyebrows, teasing. “I do believe, Lieutenant Little, that you rather liked it.”

The curve at the corner of Edward’s mouth deepened.

“Well,” he said. “Perhaps a little."

 

 

_three._

 

The flap of their tent was barely secured before Tom was stepping in close and tipping Edward’s face up for a kiss. It was a quiet thing, not the prelude to more it would have been in the days when there was a private cabin and a wooden door between them and the rest of the ship, but Edward was still humming down to his toes by the time they parted. He did not foresee a day when Tom’s touch failed to have that effect on him. 

Judging by his smile and the pink tinge Tom’s cheeks had acquired above the new line of beard, he was in a similar state. “So,” he said, somewhat breathless. “How was your day?”

“Much the same as yours, I imagine,” Edward replied, not certain he entirely understood the humour he could hear in Tom’s voice. His answer must have been the correct one all the same because Tom laughed and leaned in for another kiss that Edward returned for a few seconds before gently pushing him away. “I really did ask you in here for a purpose. A different purpose,” he added at the saucy look that got him. “To talk.”

“All right.”

Sounds of the camp reached them as they sat. Low voices; the rising wind snapping at canvas; shale crunching beneath boots as someone walked past the ragged line of tents. The tent walls were thin enough to let in the evening sun, but the world outside still seemed muted and distant. The day’s hauling and picking their way across the hard, shifting terrain had left the men too tired to raise voice or do anything but eat what was in front of them and then take their rest. Prepare for another day of the same. If they were anything like Edward, the pain that had bitten deep into every muscle in those first weeks of unaccustomed exertion would have faded by now to a dull ache and a persistent twinge in his lower back that made him wince as he tried to get comfortable on the blankets they shared with Henry Le Vesconte. The march had brought out new angles in his frame and the shale seemed determined to dig into each and every one.

Tom had also lost weight, perhaps more than Edward, but his frown wasn’t for their uncomfortable seat. He reached out and took Edward’s hand, careful of the bandages.

“This is new,” he said.

Mr. Bridgens had wrapped Edward’s hand that morning, before the boats were loaded. Without a doctor he couldn’t be sure, he said, but he had been seeing more and more men with what looked like old injuries; breaks and wounds long since healed that were now reawakening. Six years ago, Edward had fallen wrong during a summer storm off the coast of Chile and broken two bones in his left hand: a clean break that had healed well and not given him a moment’s trouble since. It seemed impossible that this was what he was feeling all these years later, that their passage through this desolate place could turn back the clock in such a fashion, but the pain and stiffness lay along the lines of that old hurt.

He lifted Tom’s hand to lay a kiss to his bare fingers. “It’s nothing, I assure you.”

There was an unhappy cant to Tom’s mouth but he nodded. Neither of them would mention it again, just like they didn’t speak of the fatigue and confusion of thought, or the blisters and open sores. Or the blood beading Tom’s hairline and the way he kept his mouth closed when he kissed Edward these days; how his lips tasted like copper all the same. It wouldn’t be forever. There would be a time to examine wounds later, once they were safe, but for now all any man could do was keep moving forward.

He kissed Tom’s fingers again. “I have something for you.”

Curiosity brightened Tom’s face. He had to know that there was nothing to spare out here so any gift would be a meagre thing indeed, but the way he lit up made Edward suddenly wish he had something of value to give him. Was that a thing men did with each other? None of the men he had known before would have welcomed such a display, but with Tom he would have liked to try.

Tom’s expression didn’t fall, precisely, but it did acquire a sardonic bent when Edward fetched his sextant from his chest. “I don’t think you’ll get much of a reading in here.”

“It’s for you.”

“Right,” Tom said slowly, searching Edward’s face like he believed there was some mystery to unravel here. “Well, I must say I preferred your last token. I don’t think I’ll get half such a good night’s sleep with this beneath my pillow.”

“Oh, hush.” Edward refused to be distracted, even as he felt heat steal across the back of his neck. “Do you know how to use it? It’s quite simple, really. Come, let me show you.”

He began by naming each part of the instrument and its corresponding function. Tom let him get as far as the shade glasses before placing a hand on his arm. “Edward, not that I don’t appreciate it, but why are you telling me this?”

The question took Edward by surprise: he had thought it was obvious. “The Admiralty may not approve your commission. I hope they do; I will certainly argue in its favour—as will Captains Crozier and Fitzjames, I am certain—but if you are ever to serve on a ship there are things you must know. There’s an examination I imagine they will have you sit. I can help you with that, of course, and a tutor can be arranged for the Latin and French, but I thought this was something we could do now.”

Tom looked at him for so long and with such a strange expression that Edward felt himself falter. “Is it a foolish idea?”

“No!” Tom surged forward, kissing him hard on the mouth. “Not foolish at all.”

“Perhaps you do not wish to remain a lieutenant.” The commission wasn’t something Tom had asked for, after all, though he had taken to it better than any hundred graduates of a Naval Academy. Perhaps this would have surprised Edward had he only ever known the captain’s steward and not the man beneath the starched collar, but perhaps not. Even when he used to watch Tom from beneath his lashes and think himself subtle, he had taken note of the efficiency and self-possession guiding the steward’s steps. Perhaps this poorer version of himself would not have found it so strange that these qualities served a man just as well when he was issuing orders as when he was carrying them out.

But being good at something did not mean you had to want it. It would not reflect poorly upon Tom if he did not wish to hold onto his new rank and all it entailed.

“I do,” Tom said, fierce. “Show me.”

The sextant was so familiar to Edward that it had proven difficult for him to instruct a novice in its use the first time he was called upon to do so. Not unlike trying to describe how to tell your fingers to form a fist. Many years had passed since then, however, and by now he was well-versed in explaining it and other instruments of navigation to even the slowest of boys and midshipmen in a way they could understand. Tom was the furthest thing from slow and he listened intently, asking questions to clarify any points on which he was unclear, but after a time his attention began to wander and the questions dried up. He smiled gratefully when Edward suggested they leave the rest for another time.

He looked tired. The hour was growing late; they ought to check in with the captain and see that all was well with the men, but neither of them made a move to leave. Lingering, as they had seldom been able to do in their snatched moments together aboard Terror. There was much they had been forced to abandon along with the ship, intimacies no longer possible now that privacy was a sheet of canvas and Henry’s fitful kicking, but there were things they had gained out on the shale, too. Falling asleep to Tom’s slowing breaths and waking with him curled in close and warm was a different kind of intimacy, one Edward had thought would have to wait until they were home. That morning, he had woken to find Tom watching him, his beautiful eyes almost uncanny in the half-light. Edward had blinked fuzzily as Tom glanced past his shoulder to where Henry was still snoring, and then leaned in to plant the softest kiss on Edward’s mouth while he was still mostly asleep. If he had his way, he would wake up like that every day for the rest of his life.

Sharing quarters was a thing only made possible by Tom’s promotion. Edward thought back to that morning: how happy they all had been, how wonderfully surprised, and how in the midst of that happiness he had wondered, inanely, how their tent was going to fit the five of them. It had been an unnecessary concern. That day they had gained one lieutenant and lost two more: first John at the hands of that devil, and then George taken by the creature or the fog it vanished into.

Of all the sorrows that had befallen them, that day had been the worst. Not only for the loss of those two friends and fifty more men—both the very best and the very worst kind—but also for what it had revealed to Edward about himself. How he had fallen short when called upon to act, first with the armoury and then again during the attack.

Failure was a bitter teacher, but he would do better from this time forward. His duty was to those men he could hear now finishing the evening’s meal and he would not let them or the captain down again. Not all of them would leave this place, that was becoming clear, but he would do everything in his power to see that number was as high as possible. To bring home as many men as they could.

Edward was so lost in thought that he almost flinched when Tom touched his face, stroking the beard covering his chin. “I like this.”

With the loss of Gibson, and with Edward’s hand growing stiffer and his grip less certain, maintaining a shave had proven one more struggle than he was willing to endure. It also seemed more than a little ridiculous to concern himself with this small vanity while the rest of him grew ever more filthy and unkempt. Tom had offered his services, claiming not to have forgotten how to give a close shave, and appeared downcast when Edward informed him that this wasn’t part of a lieutenant’s duties, though he had meant nothing ill by it. It was news to him that Tom approved of the result of his laxity.

“Because more of my face is concealed?” He gathered himself enough to make a weak jest and was rewarded with a smile.

“Still looking for compliments,” Tom teased. “You look very handsome. Distinguished, even.”

Edward suspected ‘disreputable’ was closer to the truth, but it was kind of Tom to say so. Tom’s feelings towards his own beard were considerably less fond, though he only grumbled about it a very little. The vain streak that Edward had long been aware of and charmed by in him had no place in their current situation and had been set aside like all other useless things, making those moments when it did emerge oddly cheering. A reminder that not everything set aside had been lost.

“I shall keep it then, shall I?” Edward turned his face into Tom’s palm, the woollen glove catching against his whiskers and Tom’s warm fingers following the curve of his ear. “When we are back in England and people see us out walking together they will think that fine, handsome fellow in the new lieutenant’s coat has brought himself back a pirate.”

“Oh, England,” Tom said, like the word was unfamiliar to him. “When will that be?”

“Soon,” Edward promised. “We’re close.”

To his surprise, Tom laughed. “Don’t let the captain hear you say that.” At Edward’s curious look, he explained: “He doesn’t like that word. Says 'close' is the worst thing in the world when you’re in the Discovery Service. Worse than anything.”

It did sound like something the captain would have said when he was in his cups. A haranguing tirade often followed an idle comment back when the great cabin had stank of sweated whiskey and the ship had been turned on its side for more reasons than the ice. “Do you agree?”

Tom thought about it. His hand had fallen to catch Edward’s undamaged one, fingers tucking beneath the edges of his glove. “I suppose it feels worse in the moment,” he finally said. “To want something that much and come so close only to have it taken from you. It must cut deeper when you can see exactly what you could have had. But if you’re close it means you tried, doesn’t it? Nothing in this life was ever given to a man who didn’t try, but if you try there’s always a chance, isn’t there? Anything can happen.”

“Yes,” Edward said quietly. “I think you’re right.”

The kiss they shared was tinged with copper, but still sweet. Tom laid his head on Edward’s shoulder and Edward rested his cheek against it. The wind whistled outside. If he imagined that the tent’s skin was peeled back or made transparent like glass he could look out across the shale and see forever. A wide, empty land spreading hundreds of miles in all directions. Each one a path they might take: a choice, a chance, a way out. Countless possibilities stretching out in front of them and home just past the horizon. Beyond sight, yes, but not beyond reach. Not for them.

He pressed a kiss to Tom’s ragged hair. Yes. Anything could happen.

 


End file.
